


Toujours Dieu, Toujours Père

by iberiandoctor (jehane)



Series: The Continuing Adventures of the Paris Prefecture of Police [2]
Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Aftercare, Age Difference, Caning, Daddy Kink, Double Penetration, Face Slapping, Fathers & Sons, Gloves, Held Down, Jules' Massive Crush, Loyalty, M/M, Manhandling, Master/Servant, Multi, Obedience, Politics, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Punishment, References to the Guns Scandal, Sexy Humiliation, Threesome - M/M/M, Wall Sex, authority kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-23 09:21:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14931531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehane/pseuds/iberiandoctor
Summary: Spring 1832, and a rudderless Parisian society is on the knife’s-edge of violent uprising. Where have all the good daddies gone when you need them the most?





	Toujours Dieu, Toujours Père

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Verabird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verabird/gifts).



> Happy summer holidays, Verabird! I have no excuses for this, save in that, possibly, the one thing better than daddy kink sex is a daddy double-team? CW for daddy kink and some sexy mostly-consensual chastising.

Spring had come late to Paris that year. Perhaps that had set the stage for the unrest and the spread of this dreaded disease, for people huddled together for warmth, and threw their refuse into the stinking gutters that ran down the middle of the streets. Now, it seemed even their Prime Minister had himself come down with the illness.

M. Périer’s sickness had of course roused many concerns, including those of Jules’ cantankerous grandfather. To reassure him, Jules had been spending more time at home, at their old family apartment in Rue de l’Ouest, keeping company with his mother and his five little sisters. Unfortunately this meant Jules had been forced to keep close quarters with that old battle-axe too — who, when he wasn’t complaining about the government of the day and how corrupt they were, was still badgering Jules to get married. 

This was why Jules was hurrying through the streets towards his place of work at the Rue de Jérusalem at the crack of dawn — he was trying to get out of the house before the old man woke up. 

The streets were unusually busy for such an ungodly hour: workers hurrying to their early shifts, milkmen and bakers readying their wares for the day’s business. Newspaper vendors were out and about, with their armloads of _Le Messager_ and _Le Moniteur_ , as well as the republican broadsheet _La Tribune_ — which had last October been hauled to court by the government over printing a story about M. Gisquet’s purchase of 300,000 guns on behalf of the War Ministry. 

Jules wasn’t a lawyer, so he had no idea what was the true story behind the guns scandal. As far as he knew, it involved something about extortion, and a staggering sum of 32,000 francs that had been paid for guns that had turned out to be defective. He knew that M. le Préfet had been asked to testify, and that as a result of the lawsuit, M. Soult, who had been War Minister at the material time, was still being vilified in the streets as well as in the press. 

M. Gisquet wasn’t having an easy time of it in the press, either. Today’s issue of _La Tribune_ shouted: GISQUET ISSUES STATEMENT ABOUT POISONING WELLS! 

Jules put a coin down and took up the issue. In its fine print, the report did eventually concede that the Prefect’s statement had in fact been to _deny_ that the government had been poisoning the wells, despite what certain evil-doers had suggested, but a casual reader would not have arrived at such an understanding. 

Jules suppressed a sigh. He was merely an entry-level civil servant, charged with the Prefect’s personal and professional correspondence, but even he was well aware that the people of Paris were deeply unhappy. Especially now that Périer himself was ill, and the even less popular M. Soult himself might assume the premiership, there were distinct rumblings of unrest, and not just in the poorer quarters.

Frowning to himself, Jules crossed the Pont Saint-Michel and entered the Île de la Cité. The guards on duty at the Prefecture of Police were at the tail end of their night shift; yawning, they waved Jules in to the building. 

The vast oaken doors to the Prefect’s offices were locked as always. Jules had been entrusted with a key — Ernest was the senior secretary, but Ernest couldn’t usually be relied on to show up on time for parties, let alone for work. 

He entered the outer rooms, threw back the curtains to admit the thin dawn light, and turned to the secretarial desks in the outer office: Ernest’s, in its usual state of disarray, and Nicolas’, as tidy as a new pin, and his own, on which the Prefect’s in-tray resided. There was a single letter in it. 

Jules frowned. It was too early for the mail, and he was certain Nicolas had cleared all correspondence when they locked up the day before. 

He opened the envelope. It was addressed for M. Gisquet’s private eyes, and contained an immaculate sheaf of cream paper. Written upon it in a learned cursive hand was the following missive:

_Filthy lap dog — you are nothing without your master. Once he is dead, it will be your turn._

It was at this point in time that Jules heard an ominous creaking sound from within the inner rooms of the Cabinet particulier.

Nobody had the keys to the Cabinet particulier! That is, nobody except Jules, and M. Gisquet, and the Secretary of the 1st Bureau, M. Chabouillet. And possibly Yannick and other trusted members of the cleaning staff … and …

Very quietly, Jules opened his desk drawer, and took up the police-issued pistol that M. Javert had insisted all civil servants in the Prefecture train with. He carefully pulled back the safety hammer, pleased to note his hands were steady, and crept over to the door that led to the Cabinet.

It was unlocked. 

Jules opened it as silently as he could, and, sidearm at the ready, stealthily entered the Cabinet.

M. Gisquet’s office itself was dark, but the door to the inner Salle du Cabinet was ajar, and it looked like one of the lanterns in that recreational area had been lit. Jules approached the door, hands beginning to shake a little as they clutched the pistol. Could the writer of that letter have managed to gain entry and lay a trap for the Prefect, as he had alluded to in the note? It did sound like someone was within the Salle doing just that.

Just as Jules approached the open door (and the belated thought struck him that he would do better to sneak back outside and summon help from the guards at reception), he heard a familiar voice.

“Please, I beg of you.”

It was M. Javert. Jules had never heard the usually stoic, controlled Inspector sound this desperate.

Oh, God! Could the letter-writer have gained entry, and somehow managed to take Inspector Javert prisoner? Flinging caution to the wind, Jules rushed headlong to the rescue, pistol held at head-height.

The tableau in the Salle du Cabinet was not the one he expected.

It was true: the Inspector had been taken prisoner. However, it seemed he was willingly participating in the said imprisonment. Indeed, he was pressed against the elaborate wallpaper; his uniform trousers were around his ankles; his face, turned to Jules, was flushed and sheened with sweat.

Standing immediately behind Javert, holding him face-first against the wall, one fist grasping the back of his jacket — balls-deep inside him and ploughing his arse in a methodical, insistent rhythm — was a partly-dressed M. Chabouillet.

Both men froze at Jules’ clattering intrusion. The Inspector’s eyes snapped open, and he blinked, trying to focus. An expression of fury crossed M. Chabouillet’s handsome face, quickly followed by barely-stifled amusement.

Lips twitching, not withdrawing himself from the Inspector’s body, the Secretary drawled, “I think we ought to consider better security arrangements, Javert. Then again, the risk of being shot in the head does add a certain piquancy to matters, doesn’t it?”

“Indeed,” Javert muttered, a monumental scowl taking over his broad features as he squinted at Jules. 

Jules carefully re-cocked the safety on the pistol, and then felt the gun slide from his nerveless hand. There was a great ringing in his ears. He heard himself start to babble, in a high-pitched voice that sounded like it belonged to his little sisters, or to Ernest.

“M. le Secrétaire, I am so, so, _so_ — “

“Put the gun away and get over here,” M. Chabouillet said, pulling himself out of the Inspector at last. In the low light, his ramrod-straight prick glistened like an oiled weapon. “But first, close the door behind you.”

Jules scrambled to comply, almost tripping over his long legs in his haste to obey. When he turned back around, he realised that M. Javert had crossed the room with him and was standing not a hair’s breadth away. The Inspector’s eyes glittered, menacingly.

“What do you have to say for yourself, boy?”

Jules heard himself continue to squeak in Ernest-like tones: “I, I heard a sound? I thought you might be in danger?”

“You thought I might be in danger.” Javert picked Jules up by the scruff of his collar, in much the same way as M. Chabouillet had just been holding Javert himself, and turned to address the Secretary. “Sir, how should we chastise this pup for his rashness?”

M. Chabouillet was removing the rest of his clothes and placing them, item by meticulous item, on a nearby coat-rack. “You know how I would like to chastise him, my wolf-hound. But I am afraid we don’t have all day. I’m scheduled to report on the new anti-cholera measures at the Chamber of Deputies at nine o’clock.”

“In that case, Sir, we will just have to make do.” Javert hefted Jules across the room as if he was no lighter than Ernest, and shoved him to his knees before the Secretary.

M. Chabouillet peered down into Jules’ furiously perspiring face. He held a glove in one hand and his stockings in another; as Jules watched, he hung the stockings on the coat-rack, and then reached out to tilt Jules’ chin up. 

“You say you rushed in here because you thought the Inspector was in danger?”

“Yes?” whispered Jules. He was aware that he was shivering in terror, and something that wasn’t terror.

M. Chabouillet released his chin, and then — without any warning at all — slapped him across the face with the glove in his other hand. The leather of the glove was soft, but Jules found his eyes starting to water, more from the humiliation than from actual pain. 

“Do you now see the error of your ways?”

“Yes,” said Jules; it sounded, embarrassingly, close to a sob.

“Javert,” M. Chabouillet said, a command which needed no specific instructions. In response, Javert changed his grip on Jules’ jacket and pulled him to his feet; Jules tried not to cry out as the Inspector began, with great strength and very economical movements, to rip Jules’ clothes off piece by piece. 

When Jules was entirely naked, Javert shoved him to his knees again.

“I will let you choose. How many?”

Jules could not help but shiver when he understood the Inspector’s meaning. “Six?” he suggested bravely.

Javert made a sound that was almost approving. “M. le Secrétaire does not have that much time. We will make it three.”

“Thank you, M. l’Inspecteur,” Jules whispered. He managed not to utter the name he truly wished to call the Inspector when the crack of the cane descended like lightning across his backside.

Once, twice, _thrice_ … Jules did sob aloud; he couldn’t help it. He was afraid for his family, and his cholera-stricken city, and his threatened, scandal-exposed Prefect, and for these superiors whom he had come to see in the place of the father lost to war. He knew how little he knew, and how young he was —no more than a boy, really — and he knew he should be grateful for any punishment those superiors saw fit to mete out.

Afterwards, M. Chabouillet placed an elegant hand on Jules’ hair. “That wasn’t so bad, was it. Are you ready for the second part of your chastisement?”

“I am here to serve the Prefecture, and my superiors,” Jules said. His arse stung, but he knew that it would hurt far more before the morning was out. Imagining what was in store for him made him flush, shamefully; he knew he had already become half-hard at the thought. 

“Very well. Bend over the couch. Javert, why don’t you begin, since you were the one he so rudely interrupted?”

“Gladly,” Javert said. Jules was busy arranging himself face-down on the padded leather couch, but he did not need to see it to know that a tiger-like grin had spread across the Inspector’s face.

Javert was not a gentle man; all the same, he was not inconsiderate, even when asked to perform rightful chastisement. For instance, he took longer than strictly necessary to prepare Jules’ arse for use. Jules stuffed his fist in his mouth as Javert’s thick, blunt fingers dug into his hole, but he couldn’t muffle his groans — the rough, wet stretching burned deliciously against his already sore flesh, and he wanted more.

“Enough,” M. Chabouillet commented, after an excruciatingly long time. “He seems ready.” Jules rather agreed; he was trying to writhe affirmatively against the couch, but Javert was holding him down too securely for that, the solid hand between his bare shoulder-blades and the weight behind it pinning him in place. 

For some reason, Javert hesitated. “Will you consider taking him with me, Sir?” he asked, a rough note of excitement in his voice.

Jules didn’t know what this meant, but he could hear the way M. Chabouillet’s breathing grew coarser at Javert’s suggestion. “Do you think the boy can accommodate us both?”

“The others could not, but I believe this lad is capable,” Javert said, in tones that sounded almost fond, which made Jules’ heart swell despite itself. Abruptly, he let Jules get up, and when Jules could see again, he could not mistake the slight smirk upon the Inspector’s usually grim face. 

“You are capable, aren’t you, Nabon? You’ll be good for M. le Secrétaire, and for me?”

“I will, sir. Whatever you wish,” Jules panted; he meant it, too, despite still having no idea what Javert had in mind. 

Javert muttered, as if to himself, “I believe it would be easier this way,” and lay down on his back upon the couch. The sight of that naked, hairy, powerful body and ferocious erection made Jules’ breath come faster. Then those big hands took hold of Jules by the hips and drew him fiercely on top of that jutting cock. 

Jules moaned between his teeth as he bore down upon the Inspector’s massive prick; holding himself propped up against Javert’s shoulders, he had no means by which to stop himself from crying out. It was amazing: he felt himself yield to gravity, and with it, to every inch of Javert's huge member, until it felt as if every part of him was filled with Javert.

“What a good boy,” M. Chabouillet drawled, directly into Jules’ ear. That elegant hand seized Jules’ shoulder possessively. Jules felt something smooth and hard slide against the cleft of his already stuffed-full arse, and then, suddenly, awfully, that smooth, hard thing pressed itself inside.

Jules felt his whole body shudder as it tried, frantically, to defend itself — but to no avail. M. Chabouillet would not be denied: his unrelenting cock rammed its way into Jules’ passage alongside Javert’s, invading him more deeply and completely than Jules could have ever dreamed.

"Oh God—! Monsieur —"

“Courage,” M. Chabouillet said, firmly; “you are made of sterner stuff, my boy, I know it. Come then, prepare yourself —”

The Secretary began to thrust slowly, and Jules could not hold back his wrecked, wretched cries. Dimly, he heard the Inspector panting and swearing beneath him. Now trying to withhold himself from M. Javert only pressed him back even closer against M. Chabouillet, the Secretary’s muscled body driving into him like a battering ram, teeth scraping possessively at his neck, doubtless leaving marks. 

Large hands clasped hold of Jules, claiming him utterly, fondling and tweaking and pressing hard enough to hurt, and he could not tell to whom they belonged. He never felt more like a conquered subject, or a helpless child. The world swam dizzyingly around him; someone was digging bruises into his hips, someone else was stroking his leaking prick, but he could think of nothing other than the slippery, swollen cocks that impaled him and spread him to the limits of himself and made him surrender everything he was to their excruciating punishment. 

It went on for an agonisingly long time. Jules realised he had started to beg, but he wasn’t certain whether he was begging for it to stop or to never stop.

M. Chabouillet was the first to spend, as was the right of his position. He drew rigid behind Jules, and jerked himself out of Jules’ arse, and gusts of warm wetness pattered down across Jules’ naked back like rain. Jules gasped at the sensation of abrupt loss: it was as if the Secretary had left a gaping hole in Jules’ heart that only one thing could fill. 

Javert reached up to curl one big hand at the nape of Jules’ neck. Jules buried his face in the Inspector’s shoulder, and sobbed out that treacherous endearment, and came so fiercely he thought he might pass out.

Fortunately for his pride, he didn’t pass out. He couldn’t stop trembling, though, weak in every limb now that his chastisement was finally over. Javert had to lay him down on the other couch and clean him up briskly as if he was a babe, and M. Chabouillet himself drew a soft rug over his shivering form. 

“You did well, my boy,” the Secretary said, resting a hand against Jules’ shoulder. He had gotten dressed, and in his pressed uniform, with his weapon sheathed once again behind layers of fine fabric, he was once again the cool, unflappable, immaculate senior officer of the police. 

Jules tried to concentrate. There was something pressing he needed to tell M. le Secrétaire, but in the aftermath of sex he could barely remember it. 

“…The letter,” he mumbled, at last.

Javert got dressed, left the Salle, and came back with the note. His brows were drawn into a forbidding line. “Read this,” he said to M. Chabouillet, tersely.

The Secretary glanced at the paper, and then he sighed. “You know, Javert, I was never entirely satisfied about the fiasco with the guns. Even our reckless former banker would not have been as foolish as to offload defective weapons onto the government, even if it provided his bank with sorely needed capital; and yet there is no question that the guns were defective. Which means he did this for a collateral purpose.”

“The note also threatens M. Gisquet’s patron,” Javert said, pointedly.

“It does, and it would seem the writer is not afraid of identifying himself, either. In fact, he _wants_ Gisquet to know.” M. Chabouillet sighed again. Then he stroked Jules’ cheek. “Poor boy, this must have caused you some alarm. Is this why you charged in here waving a pistol, thinking someone was menacing the Inspector?” 

Jules nodded. Lassitude had settled into his limbs; he felt exhausted, and on the verge of sleep, even though his actual work day had not technically yet started.

M. Chabouillet chuckled, low and deep. “You need not trouble yourself on M. Javert’s behalf. The Inspector is notoriously hardy.” 

“That I am,” Javert said with equanimity. “As M. le Secrétaire has said, you need not fear. Your superiors do know best, after all.”

Jules nodded again. “Yes, sir.” He knew these political matters were beyond him — the various scandals, the threats to the Prefect’s life, the shadowy Prime Minister who had been M. Gisquet’s patron and who now was deathly ill, leaving his government in turmoil. He was glad he didn’t have to deal with these weighty matters of state, and that he could leave them in the capable hands of the fine men who ran this office.

“Perhaps you should get some rest,” M. Chabouillet said kindly, taking hold of his coat and hat. “Nicolas will cover your duties for the early morning. No doubt Ernest will rouse you in good time when he makes his way in to the Cabinet at last.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jules murmured gratefully. 

Javert patted Jules’ shoulder with something that, in another man, would have been considered gentleness, as he, too, took his leave. Jules hoped, stealthily, that the Inspector hadn’t heard him call him Daddy. People said all kinds of things during sex, and those were just words that didn’t necessarily mean anything. 

Or at least that was what Jules decided he would keep telling himself as he drifted off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by the redoubtable Miss M! Title from Victor Hugo’s [La Paternité](https://fr.wikisource.org/wiki/La_Paternit%C3%A9) — a hero’s anguished, disturbingly sexy paean to his father, after his own son leaves him:
> 
>  
> 
> _The beauty of childhood is not to finish._  
>  _Above all men, and whatever we can do,_  
>  _Someone is always God, someone is always Father._  
>  _Who are you, there? Would you be my master —_  
>  _Lord, guide, guardian, judge! Oh! I would be_  
>  _Your slave, offering you my heart, bending my forehead,_  
>  _To feel alive, even if it be an affront!_
> 
>  
> 
> [More historical backstory than anyone needs](https://fr.wikisource.org/wiki/M%C3%A9moires_d%E2%80%99outre-tombe/Troisi%C3%A8me_partie/Livre_X#cite_ref-p330_5-0): IRL, Henry Joseph Gisquet was the protégé of Casimir Périer, the charismatic 9th Prime Minister of France, and worked his way up to head the Périer family’s bank before founding his own banking house in 1825. In November 1830, in the midst of threats and preparations for European war, Gisquet was commissioned by the government of the July Monarchy (then headed by Prime Minister Jacques Laffitte, of which Périer was the President of the Chamber of Deputies, and Jean-de-Dieu Soult its Minister of War) with the purchase of 300,000 rifles for the war effort. 
> 
> Périer didn’t get on with the new King, but Louis-Philippe reluctantly appointed Périer Prime Minister anyway in March 1831. In his turn, Périer appointed Gisquet Prefect of Police on October 14, 1831. Two weeks later, the opposition press was hauled to court on defamation charges for printing stories accusing Périer and Soult of extortion in connection with the Gisquet-brokered purchase of the aforesaid rifles, which were apparently defective. In the court proceedings, it transpired that it had been Gisquet who had apparently negotiated an overly high price (32,000 francs) for the defective rifles, which the Soult ministry had for some reason accepted and paid for, thereby providing Gisquet’s bank with desperately-needed capital.
> 
> In April 1832, Périer contracted cholera and met an untimely death; thereafter Gisquet embarked on an oppressive (and, for someone who supported the 1830 Revolution, uncharacteristic) campaign to suppress the June Rebellion and trample on the freedoms of the press and the common man, causing rocks to fall and everyone sympathetic to die untimely deaths. 
> 
> This AU suggests such a Bad Ending might not have occurred if there had been a sufficient number of daddies running the government and the Prefecture at the material time.


End file.
